


Metaphorical Cigarette Smoke on Starless Ceilings

by lakeshoredive



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessions and Rejections, Implied Sexual Content, Iwaizumi Hajime-centric, Iwaoi terrible at expressing their feelings what else is new, M/M, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, but then gets back on the road to canon, smacks iwa this boy can hold so much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:53:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29899323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lakeshoredive/pseuds/lakeshoredive
Summary: Iwaizumi Hajime swallows rejection like a too big piece of food. It gets lodged halfway in his throat, and he might have to pound his chest a few times to get it down.He’d rather cough it up, spit it out near his shoes and let the sun bake it to nothingness.Or, Iwaizumi gets his heart broken, tells himself he's coping with it (he's not), and makes terrible decisions along the way.
Relationships: Hanamaki Takahiro & Iwaizumi Hajime, Iwaizumi Hajime & Matsukawa Issei, Iwaizumi Hajime & Oikawa Tooru, Iwaizumi Hajime/OCs (brief), Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 19
Kudos: 96





	Metaphorical Cigarette Smoke on Starless Ceilings

**Author's Note:**

> Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee Iwa angst. That's all this really is. Idk I wanted to make him cry so here you go. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this as much as it hurt me to write it! 
> 
> Warning for implied sexual content and explicit language.

_Something’s not right about what I am doing but I’m still doing it--_

_living in the worst parts, ruining myself._

_My inner life is a sheet of black glass._

_If I fell through the floor I would keep falling._

_The enormity of my desire disgusts me._

_-Richard Siken, War of Foxes_

___________________________________________________________________

Iwaizumi Hajime swallows rejection like a too big piece of food. It gets lodged halfway in his throat, and he might have to pound his chest a few times to get it down. 

He’d rather cough it up, spit it out near his shoes and let the sun bake it to nothingness. 

Two months before they part ways to separate colleges, Hajime decides to be brave. 

Two months before they part ways to separate colleges, it bites him in the ass. 

“I’m sorry,” Oikawa says, desperately. “I’m not-” And Hajime doesn’t think his heart can take another hit, so he cuts in. 

“It’s fine. I just-” _wanted you to love me back-_ “wanted you to know I guess.” 

“Iwaizumi,” and there it is, he thinks, the end of it all. 

He doesn’t flinch, catches tense muscles before they move and give him away like the lovesick fool he is. 

“It doesn’t have to change anything,” he says, quickly. 

“Doesn’t it?” Oikawa responds, surprised. 

“Of course not,” he rolls his eyes. “Treat it like any other-“ he can’t bring himself to say the word _rejection._ “Confession.” 

“But this _isn’t_ just some other confession. I didn’t even know you were into guys.” 

“The hell does that have to do with anything?” 

“Nothing! I just didn’t know. You didn’t tell me.” 

“I don’t think much of the gender of the person I like. Don’t be shitty.”

They’re at an impasse. Since Hajime threw the first stone, he ought to throw the last. But Oikawa beats him to it, hurtling the last stone at Hajime’s fragile defenses.

“You think you’ll get over this…” he gestures a hand between them. 

“Probably eventually,” he sighs, resisting the urge to rub his chest like it’ll soothe the ache that’s growing between his ribs. 

_Probably never,_ a voice whispers in the back of his mind. 

They part on empty promises. 

~~~

The thing about falling outs, he realizes, is that it happens far more gradually that he anticipated. Lack of texts, less responses, more ‘sorry late practice’ and ‘rain check?’ And before he knows it, he’s moved in with Hanamaki in Tokyo and three weeks into the new semester. 

~~~

He’s invited to a party, a friend of a friend, and really, Hajime ought to be smarter. Because this friend of a friend is on Oikawa’s volleyball team, and he should have known. 

It catches him in the doorway, grips him by the throat and threatens to crush his esophagus. The party is in full swing, and the room doesn’t allow for much to see, lights cut and bodies on bodies moving against each other. But, just as he is everything else, Oikawa is the center of his universe, a gravitational pull that guides Hajime to him no matter where they are or how far they drift. 

Finding Oikawa is more than a habit. It’s an instinct. And instinct, he’s come to learn, has a cruel hand.

Oikawa is seated on the couch with a guy in his lap, lips pressed together languidly, rubbing his hands up and down his sides. They break away from each other, and the blissed out look on Oikawa’s face will forever be burned into his retinas, a vestige of desire and want that will mock him every time he closes his eyes. 

He’s read about time slowing, where seconds tick on for eternity, where every action and equal opposite reaction moves through time in a swimming pool of honey. Every time he blinks, a new snapshot appears before him, a camera shutter of movement, capturing the silhouettes of bodies, the charming smile on Oikawa’s face, the shudder that runs down the man’s spine when Oikawa moves his lips to his neck, the whisper in his ear, the nod, the movement, the standing. 

And Hajime, all at once, can’t breathe. 

People brush past him, nudging and pushing, soft grumbles barely heard over the music and the blood rushing in his ears. 

_I want that to be me._ A voice gasps in his mind. 

_Why can’t that be me-_

_Why don’t you love me-_

_Me._

_Me._

_Me._

A hand grips him by the arm, tugging him out of the doorway, pulling him blindly into the kitchen. 

“You okay, man?” A new voice asks, drowning out the noise in his head. Before him, with a drink in his hand, is a tall guy, and Hajime isn’t one to judge, but he’s got the worst case of bedhead he’s ever seen. “You look a little dazed.” He continues, frowning. He’s familiar. Hajime can’t put his finger on it, but he knows him from somewhere. 

“Yea,” he croaks out, finally registering what he’s saying. “I’m fine.” He thinks of Oikawa on the couch, ignoring the pang that bursts forth through him, instead focusing his attention on the guy in front of him. 

“You sure? You didn’t drink anything did you?” He appears genuinely worried. Hajime shakes his head. 

“I just got here.” 

“Maybe you should go home-” 

“I’m good,” he cuts in quickly, eyes the liquor on the counter and makes a beeline for it. “Thanks though.” He pours himself a shot, barely righting the bottle before he’s downing it, paying little mind to the dribble down the corner of his mouth, immediately pouring himself another. The idea of going back to his empty apartment is somehow worse than torturing himself with the knowledge that Oikawa is here and kissing other boys that aren’t him. 

“Hey wait-” 

“Enjoy your night,” he says, after his third shot in a row, brushing past him without bothering to get his name. 

He’s out to do something stupid.

He finds the first body he sees, pulls him into him, letting his chuckles grate his ears, his hands wander his body, his lips on his, and pretends with everything he has, that it’s Oikawa. 

But despite the darkness, despite his closed eyes, despite _everything,_ he knows it’s not. Too rough hands, calloused in different areas, too much of a height different, coarser hair, thinner lips. There’s nothing delicate about what he’s doing, nothing delicate in the way he’d imagine it would be, if Oikawa were actually here, and he’s too sober to pretend. 

“Do you want to get out of here?” His voice, too deep, too gruttal, rivaling that of his own, whispers in his ear, hot and sticky. His knee-jerk reaction is to shrink away, to rub the condensation from his ear. To sneer because _no_ he doesn’t want to get out here. He wants to be on that couch, in Oikawa’s lap, to feel Oikawa’s lips drag over his own and- 

“Sure,” he grunts, feeling his skin prickle as lips find his own again, this time softer than before. He doesn’t hate it. He doesn’t love it either, caught somewhere in between love and hate and isn’t that a bit too on the nose? 

Hajime presses harder into the kiss, making it harsher, making something that hurts, biting, forceful. He feels him chuckle against his lips, pulling back to get a good look. 

“I don’t live far.” He rubs his thumb against Hajime’s bottom lip, sucking in a sharp breath when Hajime slips it into his mouth, rolling his thumb around his tongue like a piece of candy. 

He’s got no idea what he’s doing. 

He pulls away with a pop. “Lead the way.” 

~~~

There is a man on top of him. 

There is a man on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, littering his body with tongue and teeth. 

There is a man on top of him whose name he doesn’t know, and doesn’t care enough to ask.

There is a man on top of him, making him feel ten kinds of good and three kinds of bad, stretching, pulling, gasping. 

There is a name on his lips, burning like acid, and tears in his eyes that have nothing to do with anything physical. 

~~~

He wakes in an unfamiliar bed full of unfamiliar smells. He’s sore all over, sticky, gross. He grimaces, peeling the covers off his body. The room feels so different in the daylight. Bare cream walls. A radiator in the corner that _CLANGS_ every so often, hissing out hot air. A sad looking plant on the windowsill in desperate need of a drink. His mother would have a fit. He has half the mind to steal it, nurse it back to somewhat health. 

It might be a lost cause though, leaves a sad yellow, drooping painfully low toward the floor. 

But Hajime has always had a soft spot for lost causes. 

It’s all terribly bleak. 

It hits him then, that he’s alone, in a strange blank room, the only personal touch being a picture on the desk of a young boy, grinning ear to ear, holding a basketball while another man, older, probably his dad, stands behind him, smiling softly down at him with a hand on his head.

He listens carefully for any other signs of life, but he’s met with silence, strangely oppressive, like it’s trying to squeeze him out of the space. And maybe it is. He is, after all, the foreign body here. 

Slowly, carefully, wincing at the spike of pain in his backside, he stumbles out of bed, into his clothes, working on autopilot. He’s searching for his phone when he sees the water bottle and pill packet on the bedside table. He takes neither. Under the bottle is a note. 

_Hey,_

_Had to run to work. Last night was fun. Call me if you wanna do this again. xxx-xxx-xxxx_

_\- Sato Riichi_

He pokes around for a pen. 

_Your plant needs to be watered._

_\- Iwaizumi Hajime_

He leaves with the name and number saved into his phone. 

He doubts he’ll call. 

~~~

He calls. 

Again. 

And again. 

And again. 

~~~

Hajime has been ‘dating’ Sato Riichi for two months. 

He doesn’t actually think it’s dating. 

They have more sex than they do any talking. They went to a cafe once, and Hajime was about ready to pull his hair out listening to him speak. 

But Riichi called him his boyfriend once. Hajime didn’t correct him. 

He doesn’t believe Riichi thinks they’re dating either. 

It’s all customary. 

He hasn’t talked to Oikawa in months, not since the party, since he’s begun whatever the fuck he’s doing with Sato Riichi. 

Hanamaki keeps giving him strange looks. He tried to talk to him after that first night, after the party, the night something inside of him snapped and fell down in wispy tethers. But Hajime gave him a sharp look, telling him he just let loose, nothing to worry about. 

It’s obvious that Hanamaki is concerned. He wears worry like a second skin, plastering it in the crevices of his face every time he opens his mouth. It makes Hajime feel something like a caged animal. It makes him want to lash out. So far he’s managed to keep a lid on it only for the sake of not losing another friend. 

But the smothering atmosphere of their apartment, the mild judgement every time he comes back from Riichi’s, the stream of texts from Matsukawa that keep blowing up his phone, is starting to get to him, slipping through the cracks of his crumbling sanity. 

He doesn’t know how to tell Hanamaki he’s coping, doesn’t know how to tell him his heart keeps bleeding through his bandages, but he’s dealing with it, doesn’t know how to ask about Oikawa because he knows both him and Matsukawa keep in touch. 

Hanamaki goes to Oikawa’s games. 

Matsukawa live streams them from Sendai. 

They talk about them sometimes, over the phone, although Hanamaki will abruptly end the call when Hajime walks through the door and he doesn’t know how to tell him it’s _fine._

He’s practically over it. 

He hasn’t watched a single volleyball match since moving to Tokyo and starting school. 

He’s coping. 

He’s _fine._

He’s been fucking Sato Riichi for two months. 

“Hey,” Riichi says, breathless, flopping onto his back, spent. Hajime doesn’t comment on the shitty handjob he got in return. “I think we should stop this.” 

Hajime stares at the ceiling, hands folded behind his head, imagining there are stars tacked to the ceiling, the plastic glow-in-the-dark ones that never actually glow that bright, illuminating the ceiling with a sickly green. He imagines rearranging them into constellations that look nothing like the real constellations, imagines there’s another voice here ordering him around while he’s on a ladder, chiding him when he gets it wrong.

If this were a film, he would be lighting a cigarette right now. Cigarettes after sex, nothing romantic about it, nothing but sex and nicotine, vices intent to destory. 

“Oh?” 

Riichi hums. 

“Yea. I went on a date today. Feels wrong.” 

Maybe if Hajime cared a little more, he’d be angry. 

Maybe he’d feel a swell of righteous anger bubble into the empty cavity of his chest on behalf of the new person Sato is going to fuck around with. 

But truthfully, he’s more annoyed they did this at his own apartment while Hanamaki is back home for a visit. Now he’s got to clean his sheets for no reason. 

“And you still fucked me?” Those words should be biting. Sato laughs. 

“I mean yea? Not like I’m fucking her yet. Plus you’re already here.” 

_Plus you’re already here._

_Iwa-chan’s always there when I need him._

What a shitty guy. 

Hajime lights his metaphorical cigarette. Nothing but sex and nicotine. 

“Make sure to close the door on the way out.” 

~~~

The next girl he tries to date lasts about three weeks. 

The next guy leaves him after three months. 

And the person after that says they’re only here for sex. 

He manages to snag a guy for a whole five months, five months of going on dates, arcade nights and coffee days, five months of sex that feels better than the last times, five months and Oikawa doesn’t cross his mind once. For five months, Hajime thinks he’s found something of happiness. 

Until. 

“You know,” his five month lover says, gathering his things, leaving Hajime blurry and drowsy on the bed, confused because he never leaves in such a rush. “This wasn’t good for much, but the sex was good.” 

_Wasn’t good for much._

What he hears is, _You weren’t good for much._

But the sex was good. 

He lights his metaphorical cigarette, staring at a starless ceiling. 

~~~

This action will have consequences. 

~~~

It doesn’t take long for Hanamaki to corner him and demand to know what the hell he’s doing. 

“I’m _worried_ about you, man,” he says, exasperated. “Issei is too.” 

_Issei_ doesn’t escape him. 

“Issei huh?” He deflects immediately, feeling vindicated when Hanamaki’s cheeks pink to the color of his hair. 

“ _We_ are not talking about me. _We_ are talking about _you.”_

“Actually, _you_ are the only one talking right now,” Hajime rolls his eyes. 

“That’s because you won’t _talk._ You just keep saying things that don’t mean anything. Or deflect! You’ve been doing it for weeks ever since what’s-his-face dumped you!” 

It’s a harsh dose of reality that he was _dumped_ by the guy that he really thought they could have something special with, by the guy that viewed him as nothing more as a warm body. 

Five months of wasn’t good for much but the sex was good. 

Hanamaki immediately back tracks. “Wait that’s not-” 

“You’re right,” Hajime waves him off. “He did dump me. Is that what you want to talk about?” 

He says it pleasantly, even throwing up a smile for good measure. It makes his jaw hurt. 

“ _That_ is what I’m talking about! You don’t even tell me fuck off anymore. You’re strangely compliant, you go out every other night and come back smelling like a new perfume or cologne. I just- what are you _doing_ man?” 

If Hajime could articulate the thoughts in his head, he’d probably tell him that something _worthless_ has crept into his heart, taking away his ability to smile properly. If he could articulate the thoughts in his head, he’d probably tell him there is an _ugliness_ that has taken residence inside of him, and he can’t cut it out for fear that he’ll lose the one thing left he has of himself. 

If he could articulate the thoughts in his head, he’d tell him that he’s discovered the terminal case of the unlovable, and he is patient zero. 

But he can’t articulate any of this, because he can’t make sense of it himself really, and he must do as the unlovable do and only make waves in places they can offer what they have, and in his case, his body. 

“I’m not _doing_ anything. I’m having _fun._ It’s college.” 

“ _This_ is your idea of _fun._ You look like you haven’t slept in days. I’ve seen zombies with more life than you. And,” he continues, speaking louder as Hajime tries to jut in. “Are you losing weight? I’d demand an arm wrestling match if I wasn’t afraid your arm would snap off.” 

“Well that’s a little dramatic,” he mutters, rubbing an arm self-consciously, wincing at the lessened definition. It’s been a while since he’s been to the gym, between late night sexescades and school work, he just… exists. 

“Your idea of fun used to be watching volleyball, _playing_ volleyball, goading people into competitions. _That_ kind of stuff. Not,” he waves a hand, gestures at his entire being, “whatever the hell is happening here.” 

He considers this. Considers how he hasn’t so much as looked at a volleyball in almost a year, not since the confession. It makes sense. He carved out all of the things that reminded him of Oikawa, piece by bloody piece until there were only the bits he’s managed to keep, held together by self-stitched sutures. 

“Well people change,” he shrugs. 

“Not this much,” Hanamaki argues. 

“How would you know?” He hisses, a vicious thing surging to the forefront of himself. “You’re with the same guy from high school.” He relishes in the way Hanamaki flinches. Cruel delightment sweeps through him, and he wants to keep hammering away, sink his teeth into his tiny wound he’s caused until he’s ripped through flesh and bone. But as swift as it comes, guilt stampedes across the plains of morbid pleasure, leaving him reeling. 

“I’m sorry-” 

Hanamaki raises a hand. “You know normally I’d get super pissed and call you an asshole, which you are by the way,” and Hajime concedes he deserves that one. “But I’m going to let it slide just this once because I think I might get it.” 

“Get what?” _There’s nothing to get._ He wants to scream. 

“You never told me, or Issei, what happened between you and Oikawa.” 

Hajime blinks. 

“This has nothing to do with that.” It’s flat, like all the emotion has been sucked from him through a vacuum. 

“So there is a _that,”_ Hanamaki hums. “Oikawa called it a misunderstanding.” 

And then the vacuum clogged and spat all his feelings back onto the floor in a horrible, untidy mess.

He laughs. 

Laughsuntil he’s bent over, laughs until tears are streaming down his face, laughs until he’s not laughing anymore, but gasping on air and choking on something that might be hurt, might be hate, might be love, might be all of those things rolled into a black mass that he’ll have to wrangle back down into the pits of himself. 

And for a moment, he is nothing.

“-jime! _Hajime!_ C’mon man you gotta breathe- shit Issei I don’t know what I said-” Hanamaki’s voice floats back into his ears. His cheeks feel itchy, and he realizes he’s been crying. The floor is cold on his ass, and a cabinet handle is digging into his spine. He doesn’t know when he got to the floor, but Hanamaki is kneeling in front of him, panic strewn across his face, making his eyes impossibly wide, almost cartoonish, and Hajime would laugh if he could, but he thinks all his laughter has been dried up. 

“Hiro,” he mumbles, huffing when Hanamaki snaps to attention. “Why am I on the floor?” 

“You-” Hanamaki brushes a tear track away, relieving him from some of the tightness they left, “you collapsed. Kinda. Sunk to the ground. I-” his sentences aren’t making a whole lot of sense. He thinks he would remember collapsing. “You were laughing. And crying. And _Jesus_ dude.” Hanamaki runs a hand through his pink hair, tugging on it. 

“Hajime,” that’s Matsukawa. He turns his attention to the phone in the hand that isn’t in Hanamaki’s hair. “Are you okay?” 

Is he okay? 

What is okay? 

“Yea,” he sighs, leaning his head against the cabinet, ignoring Hanamaki’s noise of protest. “Maybe. I don’t know.” 

The sunset bathes the kitchen in orange, setting Hanamaki’s hair ablaze. 

Hanamaki and Matsukawa are pictures of concern before him, harrowed expressions twisting their features into identical masks. 

And under the setting sun, sinking into the floor, he confesses, breathes life into words he’s tried to let rot inside of him. “I told him I love him. That’s what happened.” 

They blink at him. He wonders if him and Oikawa used to be that creepy, whenever they would sync up. 

“I told him I love him, and he rejected me. That’s all. That’s all there was.” 

He doesn’t tell them about the boy and the couch. 

He doesn’t tell them about _this_ _wasn’t good for much._

He doesn’t tell them _but the sex was good._

He doesn’t tell them he’s used up, good for nothing but a good fuck, the consequence of the unlovable. 

He closes his eyes as Matsukawa says, “I’ll be there in an hour and a half.” 

Closes his eyes while Hanamaki pulls him into a hug, tucking Hajime’s face into his neck, mumbling something like, “I’ll kill him” and “I’m sorries” and “why didn’t you tell us”. 

He ought to protest some. Oikawa isn’t under any obligations to love him back. 

It’s for the best, this way. 

Because, who can love the unlovable? 

~~~

Matsukawa comes for the weekend, and the duo don’t leave him alone despite his claims he’s tired. And he _is_ tired, bone deep exhaustion that makes his skin taunt and the bags under his eyes darker. 

But they either don’t care, or know that all he wants is to hole himself in his room and torture himself with all things Oikawa now that _that_ can of worms has been reopened. 

His fingers itch to check stats, watch gameplay, see how good Oikawa looks now, filled out through a college training plan. Because before he had distractions. Now he’s got mild disgust, and a relapse in a love half as old as himself.

He assumes it’s the latter, especially when Hanamaki confiscates his phone for the night as both he and Matsukawa squeeze themselves into his bed, ignoring his objections, instead choosing to sandwich him between them. 

“I loathe you two,” he grumbles, snuggling deeper into the cuddle pile they’ve created for themselves. He won’t admit it feels good, to just be held with the expectation _he_ rests, _refuses_ to. They get the message anyway. 

They drag him to the couch in the morning, declaring a movie marathon and playing all his favorite movies, ordering his favorite take out, all while refusing to allow him to pay for _anything_. It’s infuriatingly sweet. 

They don’t mention the small naps he takes, or how he doesn’t laugh at the parts he used to, or how he keeps staring into space, only blinking back to life when one of them gently shakes his attention. 

It’s the most at peace Hajime has felt in months. 

~~~

The end of the school year comes and goes. Hanamaki announces he wants to move back to Sendai for a little. College isn’t really for him. He needs to figure some things out for himself. His parents are furious. But Hajime can see a visible weight lifted off of him. So he promises him that he’s getting better, that he’s _working on himself_ so Hanamaki will go step into a new unknown without fear that his friend will go off the deep end. 

And he is, in a twisted kind of way, _working on himself_ , if _working on himself_ means staring listlessly at the wall day in and day out while bearing the weight of living. 

He hasn’t gone out in months, not since his initial breakdown. 

That ought to count for something. 

He moves in a one bedroom. Ironically, it’s closer to Oikawa’s school than his own. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. 

It’s been a year since he’s seen Oikawa. 

It’s been a year of existing. 

Fate has a funny way of throwing two people together. 

It’s two in the morning when Hajime stumbles to the corner store, hungry and unable to sleep. He’s still not super familiar with the area quite yet, and the deal he’s struck with existence is that he doesn’t exist outside of his apartment if he can help it. 

But hunger has won out against any other reservations, so he plugs in his headphones and walks until he finds the convenient store. 

He’s surveying two different cup noodles, one a bit pricier than the other, but the pricier one looks better. 

He puts the less expensive one back, pleased with his choice, resigning himself to a sleepless night, but at least he’ll have some comfort. He’s about to turn to the cashier when he hears a familiar gasp and freezes. 

It reminds him, a little, of a horror movie, where the main character knows if they turn around, they will die. 

Except Hajime is a dumbass side character and turns towards the monster anyway. 

Standing there is the beginning of his spiral. Oikawa Tooru looks great, even at two in the morning, hair falling in soft waves, glasses endearingly skewed on his face, wide honey brown eyes blinking behind black frames. There’s always been a glow about Oikawa, something that screamed _grace_ , ethereal without trying. 

Hajime burns, tingles starting at the base of his neck and spreading throughout his body, growing hotter and hotter as the seconds pass. 

_You have no idea what you do to me,_ he thinks, a little hysterical. He wants to run, to turn around and flee the premise, to return to his tiny apartment and stare at a wall until the tightness in his chest disappears. 

“You-” Oikawa starts, stops, tries again. “Ah- what are you doing here?” 

Hajime raises the cup noodles in his hand, shaking them a little for measure. 

“What are you doing here?” He forces out. He can do this. He can make conversation with the person that broke his heart. He’s grown. He’s fine. 

Oikawa blinks, as if startled by the question, like he wasn’t expecting Hajime to entertain him. 

“Oh. Just going for a walk.” 

“At two in the morning?” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he explains, airly. 

“That makes two of us,” Hajime mutters, just loud enough for Oikawa to hear. He frowns. 

“You never had sleeping problems before?” It’s a bucket of ice water on his burning body, drawing him taunt like a bow. 

“It’s college,” he says slowly. “Everyone’s sleep schedule is fucked.” 

Oikawa hums in agreement. “Guess I just thought that Iwa-chan wouldn’t fall victim to college sleep deprivation.” And _oh_ he can’t do this. He wants to punch his teeth in. 

“Well I guess people change,” he grits out, clutching his noodles harder to quell the trembling in his hands. Oikawa’s eyes widened, sensing a mistake. He doesn’t apologize, because that would be silly, but he takes a proverbial step back. 

“How have you been?” He switches tactics. 

“Fine. Busy. You?” They’re operating under such different circles, two completely different cogs trying to make the machine run. It makes conversation near impossible. 

“Likewise,” Oikawa chokes out. He glances at the clock on the wall and sighs. “I need to start walking back.” 

“How long have you been walking?” Hajime blurts out before he can stop himself. Oikawa pauses, does the math in his head. 

“Like thirty minutes?” 

“In one direction?” 

It’s the same sheepish look Oikawa got whenever Hajime would catch him up far too late obsessing over game footage. 

Hajime sucks on his teeth and makes a decision before he can really think it through. 

“I only live a block away. C’mon, I have a couch.” And he’s putting his noodles away, walking with the expectation that Oikawa will follow him. 

~~~

The walk back is painfully awkward. Neither of them know how to orbit each other anymore. Oikawa keeps opening his mouth to say something, only to close it again, while Hajime waits, waits for the question, _are you over it?_ But it doesn’t come. Oikawa dutifully follows him home, and if he sees Hajime’s hands shaking as he fumbles with his keys, he doesn’t say anything. Instead shucking his hands into his pockets, surveying the tiny space Hajime calls a home. He feels weirdly self conscious, noting the dirty dishes of the week in the sink, the blankets thrown haphazardly across the couch from his constant shuffling, the plants that now line the windowsills, taking up space. They were a gift from Hanamaki. He said having to take care of something might be beneficial for him. He took the stupid plants to get Hanamaki off his back. 

They’re doing well enough. 

But he’s got no personal touches, nothing that screams _Hajime_ to anyone looking. Those personal touches are collecting dust in a box under his bed. 

“Nice place,” Oikawa grins at him, softly, and Hajime can’t help but get lost in his stare. 

“It’s a mess. Didn’t think I would have company.” 

“Still nice though.” 

And just like that, they’re standing entirely too close. Oikawa’s eyes keep flicking to Hajime’s lips, taking him in, hands twitching at his sides. 

Or maybe they’re not close at all. 

Maybe it’s just the size of the shoebox he lives in, offering him no place to run. 

But Oikawa keeps fucking _looking_ at him with something soft in his gaze. And whoever said soft things can’t break you is a fucking liar because Hajime feels himself tearing apart at the seams. 

He doesn’t think. 

He’s got no idea what he’s doing. 

He hasn’t gotten any better. 

“What would you do,” Hajime begins, heart in his throat, “if I kissed you right now?” 

Oikawa blinks rapidly, rearing his head back, stunned. 

What a powerful feeling it is, to catch the Grand King off guard. 

“ _What?”_ He splutters. 

Hajime rolls his eyes. “It’s a pretty simple question. Lack of sleep finally fry your brain?” He hides his hands behind his back, hoping the trembling won’t tumble its way up his arms. 

“Is this about-” 

“No.” He lies, sharp enough Oikawa flinches at the tone. “I’m over _it.”_ Oikawa’s face does something complicated, a flicker of emotions too fast to be deciphered before it settles into a blank canvas. 

But Oikawa shakes his head, looking torn. Hajime throws him a bone. 

“Look,” he shrugs. “I’m stressed. You’re stressed. Call it stress relief if it makes you feel better.” 

“How do you know I’m stressed?” 

“Because you don’t sleep when you’re stressed out,” he scoffs. They might not be speaking, but Hajime has known him for a decade. That doesn’t go away in a year.

“You’re serious about this?” He’s skeptical, raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. And Hajime doesn’t have the time or energy. 

“You can say no,” Hajime says, all at once tired, making his way to his bedroom. “There’s a pillow and blanket on the couch-” He cut off when Oikawa grabs him by the wrist, bringing him in close, kissing him, chaste and short, barely a press. 

He tries to pull away, but Hajime doesn’t let him. Pressing firmer into another kiss, sliding a hand into Oikawa soft hair, just as soft as he dreamed it would be, savoring the way Oikawa gasps into his mouth, immediately cupping Hajime’s face something tender. 

They continue like that, Hajime kissing the words right off Oikawa’s mouth every time he senses he’s about to say something that will ruin everything. 

All his touches are tentative, skittish hands, skittish lips, like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, like he’s waiting for Hajime to push him away. 

Hajime tugs on his hair, pulling him off, and for a brief moment Oikawa looks like he’s about to apologize, or something equally as stupid. He remembers the couch, remembers the boy. “Fucking kiss me like you _mean_ it,” he growls, smashing their lips back together. 

And Oikawa does, guiding Hajime to tilt his head, pulling him impossibly closer, gentling the kiss, but not lacking intensity. 

He revels in the _everything_ of the moment, letting Oikawa take over until his knees feel weak and he’s dizzy with it. 

“Fuck,” he gasps when Oikawa attaches to his neck, biting, sucking, and he should have _known_ Oikawa would be a biter. “Bedroom.” 

Oikawa pulls off his neck, face flushed and searching. “You sure?” 

“I thought I told you-” 

“That it’s just stress relief. Got it.” There’s a hitch to his tone. “Still want to hear a yes though, Hajime.” 

“ _Oh my fucking god,”_ he groans, looking into Oikawa’s eyes as he says, “ _Yes,”_ tugging on his hand, but pauses before they cross the threshold, turning back to Oikawa. 

“Well,” he raises an eyebrow. “Yes or no?” 

Oikawa huffs a laugh, bringing a hand to cup Hajime’s cheek again, and it melts him entirely to the core. He doesn’t nuzzle into the touch, as much as he wants to. “ _Yes, Hajime.”_ He kisses him again, soft and sweet, and it’s not what Hajime wants at all, not what he deserves. He forces something biting into the kiss, something acidic, dirty, _rough._

Best not let him delude himself into assuming this is any more than what surface value reveals. 

He breaks the kiss and shoves Oikawa into his room, and does what the good unlovable do, offers himself as all he got, all he’s good for. 

~~~

There is a man on top of him. 

There is a man on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, littering his body with tongue and teeth. 

There is a man on top of him whose name he’s known since he was five years old. 

There is a man on top of him, making him feel ten kinds of good and zero kinds of bad, stretching, pulling, gasping. 

There is a name on his lips, warming him up like a fire on a cold day, spilling between them like a prayer. 

_Tooru,_

_Tooru,_

_**Tooru.** _

~~~

He wakes to sunlight dancing in his room, sneaking through the blinds in golden tendrils. He wakes warm and sated and flings an arm out to the empty space next to him, long gone cold, and pretends that it doesn't wreck through him. Pretends that even if he saw it coming, it doesn’t snap off another vital piece of himself. 

He snuffles over to his phone, squinting at the brightness and the array of texts, all from Oikawa. 

**Oikawa (5:04 am):**

Good to know you didn’t delete my # lol

**Oikawa (5:04 am):**

I had to leave for practice didnt want to wake you. 

**Oikawa (5:05 am):**

But last night was fun! Lets do it again sometime. 

**Oikawa (5:05 am):**

And just like hanging out I miss hanging out with you :( 

Hajime breathes in, breathes out, and calls Hanamaki. 

“ _Dude,”_ he groans into the phone. “It’s like 9:30 in the morning-” 

“I slept with Oikawa,” he cuts him off and waits. 

“You fucking _what-”_

“I ran into him at a corner store, and I slept with him,” his voice is a little higher than he would like. 

“Well what are you going to do now?” 

He doesn’t have an answer for that. 

“He wants to hangout,” he says instead. 

“Like hangout hangout, or hangout to get into your pants?” 

“Both? I don’t know.” 

“ _Hajime-”_

“I _know!_ Okay. I know. I fucked up.” 

Hanamaki sighs.

“Was it good at least?” 

“Yea,” Hajime chokes on a laugh, thinking of all the people he slept with before. It’s the best he’s ever had. Hanamaki sighs again. 

“You’re fucked.” 

“I know.” 

“I’d tell you to be smart, but I think that’s already out of the question.” 

Hajime makes a noise of protest in the back of his throat. 

“You go stupid around him. Always have.” 

And well, that’s a byproduct of loving someone for the better part of your life he supposes. 

Because love, as he’s found, has no reason. And there’s something ironic in there, of the unlovable loving with everything he has. 

~~~

How unjust is it, that they fall back into old habits with the ease of never having fallen apart in the first place. 

How unjust is it, that Oikawa treats him like a friend in the daylight, and a lover by nightfall. 

How unjust is it, that Hajime has bewitched him, entrapped him in a falsified fantasy that he could ever give him any more than a fun night of _stress relief._

How unjust is it, to believe that fantasy could ever withstand reality. 

~~~ 

The veil shatters on a Friday. There were times when Fridays used to be Hajime’s favorite day of the week. Friday meant the weekend. Friday meant _fun_ and _volleyball._ Then Fridays meant late nights, rough hands, endless metaphorical cigarettes. 

Now, Fridays mean something akin to loss with a mix of regret. 

He takes Oikawa to one of his favorite cafes, closer to his own campus, at Oikawa’s insistence that he wants to explore more of Hajime’s school, wants to eat at all of Hajime’s favorite restaurants, catch a glimpse of the life Hajime has created for himself in their year apart. 

Hajime can’t bring himself to tell him his new life is built upon pretend cigarettes and corporeal desires. 

But he can take him to a little cafe he discovered during the time of Five Month Lover. 

He’s grabbing their coffees when he sees him slide up to Oikawa. Through the haze of smoke and hollow bodies, he remembers him. They fucked a couple times before Hajime never heard from him again. He jerks a thumb back towards Hajime. Oikawa tenses immediately, and he must say something harsh, because the guy backs away with his hands up. Hajime manages to get close enough to hear, “I’m just saying, man. Don’t waste your time on used goods,” before he’s leaving the cafe. A bold move, and Oikawa is shaking. 

“ _Iwa-”_

“Let’s go,” he sighs, handing Oikawa his coffee. Droplets spring from the small opening under the force of his trembling. Oikawa is never still in true anger, physical manifestations of his rage. 

His coffee is burnt, and he’s reminded of why he loves this place. Because the coffee is terrible, but cheap, and there’s something like home in the scent. Cheap, terrible coffee that brought him back to himself after nights he consummated the unlovable. Cheap, terrible coffee that burnt his tongue and drowned the taste of the night. 

“ _Hajime,”_ Oikawa grabs his arm. He pauses, lets his coffee burn his tongue, and doesn’t fight the sardonic smile that creeps upon his face. “We’re not gonna talk about it?” 

He shrugs. “What’s there to talk about?” 

Oikawa scoffs, loud, throwing his head back. “ _What’s there to talk about?!_ Do you even know what he said?” 

He could guess, and they would all be accurate. He hums. “Some. You’re making a scene.” 

He gapes at him, mouth falling open, rendered speechless. Hajime doesn’t wait for him to come up with any sort of response, turning on his heel to head back to his apartment. A frost has started at the base of his spine, climbing up, up, up, until it coats his mind, leaving the edges coated in a dewy fuzz. 

Muscle memory takes him home, and if he could, he’d curl onto the couch, sink into the cushions, and let the flickering television melt the frost. But instead, Oikawa walks stiffly beside him, working his jaw every few minutes, clench, unclench, clench unclench. The wheels in his mind turn, and Hajime will have to deal with the inevitable questions that are dancing across his face. 

Oikawa Tooru, master of masking expressions, has always been terrible at hiding them from Hajime. 

He lets Oikawa in first, closing the door behind with a soft _click_ , turning the lock, awaiting his execution. 

Oikawa’s hands drum against the side of his coffee cup. Hajime is a little mesmerized. He’s always loved Oikawa’s hands, long slender fingers, pointing at him, always pointing at him. 

“The coffee is terrible,” he says. 

“It is,” Hajime agrees. 

“Then why,” he swallows. “Why would you say it's your favorite?” 

They’re not talking about the coffee. 

_Because it burns enough to numb his taste buds. Because it's hard to choke down without at least three sugar packets. Because the smell of burnt coffee is enough to clear the oversprayed cologne left on his collar. Because it's terrible and awful and still in business because someone has to love it._

“It’s cheap,” he says, and they’re still not talking about the coffee. 

Oikawa’s face reminds him of a cracked windshield, held together by an infinite number of fissures, emotions breaking off, scattering in different directions. 

“Used goods,” he murmurs. “He called you used goods. What the _fuck,_ Hajime.” 

“Does it bother you?” He tilts his head. 

“ _Bother_ me?” 

“Yea,” Hajime gestures to himself. “Me sleeping around. Does it bother you?” 

Oikawa blinks several times, stunned. “No. I don’t give a fuck where you put your dick. What’s _bothering_ me is that asshole saying shit like that, and you’re _letting_ him.” 

“How _noble_ of you,” he sneers. “I’m not _letting_ anyone say anything.” 

“Then what was that?” 

“The truth?” 

Oikawa stills. Hajime might as well have slapped him clear across the face. 

_There it is,_ he thinks, viciously. _Now you know. Now you see._

Something like devastation settles into his features as he takes it what his words mean. 

_“Hajime-”_ he whispers, broken, haunty. 

“Don’t. Tooru please. Just don’t,” he’s exhausted, apathetic, looking past Oikawa to his well loved couch. 

“I’m not doing this anymore,” he says, finality set in his shoulders, squared and pulled tight. 

Hajime laughs, ringing hollow throughout the apartment. 

_Ah_. 

He was wrong before. _This_ is heartbreak. No rejection could rival that of the knowledge that he is officially used up, hit his _best by_ date. A final nail on the coffin with a tombstone that reads: _Here Lies Iwaizumi Hajime, No Longer Worth That Which He Has._

Existence slings an arm around his shoulders, burdening him with profound weight. He brushes past Oikawa, ignoring the tingles that fly down his arm. 

“There’s the door. Make sure you close it on your way out.” 

Oikawa doesn’t stop him, doesn’t try to say anything else. The door closes with a _click._ And he sinks into the couch. 

~~~

He notices two distinct happenstances when he wakes. One: it’s dark, the sun long since set, which means he’s been out for hours. He isn’t all that rested, mouth full of cotton and the bitter aftertaste of coffee. Two: the clinking of ceramics coming from his tiny kitchen. He jerks up, getting tangled in a blanket he knows he didn’t put on himself. Oikawa smiles softly at him from the sink, hands sudsy, washing the dishes that have been rotting for weeks. 

He looks like he belongs there. 

He looks like he hadn’t walked out hours ago. 

“How did you get into my apartment?” He rasps. 

Oikawa’s cheeks color, flushing Hajime’s favorite shade of pink. “I took the key when I left.” 

“You mean you _stole_ the key when you left,” he rolls his eyes, stretching his arms over his head, popping his shoulders with a groan. He doesn’t miss Oikawa’s gaze lingering on the exposed section of his stomach. He wants to bare his teeth at it. 

_Got you._

One consequence of the unlovable is people come back. You offer what you have, and they come back because it’s easy, it’s there, it’s free for the taking. A cheap thrill, a neon green _vacant_ sign. 

And who doesn’t crave what you don’t have to work for? 

He slides up to him, just as he’s draining the water, wrapping his arms around his waist, He presses a kiss to the back of his neck, smiling against the shudder that rushes through Oikawa. He pulls Oikawa tighter against him, taking in his warmth for a moment. 

Oikawa stills. He doesn’t even bother to dry his hands before spinning in Hajime’s embrace, placing his hands on his shoulders and forcibly shoving him away, leaving twin handprints on his t-shirt. 

Hajime stumbles back, stunned. “What the hell, Oikawa?” He blinks at him. 

“I told you I wasn’t doing _that_ anymore,” he says cooly, levelling Hajime a hard look. 

“You were serious about that?” He snorts, shaking his head. 

“Of course I was serious,” he snaps. 

“You’re so dramatic,” Hajime sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He shoulder checks him on his way to get a glass as payback for the shove. 

And maybe, Hajime is a little bit of a masochist. “What are you doing here then?” 

“Can’t I just hang out with my b- with my friend?” Hajime doesn’t comment on the slip, doesn’t want to know what _b-_ means. 

“At,” he looks at his phone, “9:00 pm on a Friday?” He squints at him. “That’s not what we _usually_ do at 9:00 pm on a Friday,” he leers, enjoying the way Oikawa’s eyes widen and his cheeks flush. 

Something twisted slithers up his throat. “I’m here, and I’m willing. So what’s your problem?” 

“My _problem?”_ Oikawa near shrieks. “My _problem_ is that I don’t want to _fuck.”_

“Alright. _Alright_ ,” Hajime holds up his hands in surrender. “Sheesh I can take a hint. But apparently you can’t. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You said so yourself. You’re done. You’re tapping out. So there’s no point in you being here, right?” He gestures to the door. “But if you’re done, then you’re done. Don’t come knocking on my door.” 

Oikawa continues to blink at him, mouth agape, like he can’t process the words Hajime is saying. He feels a flash of pity for him. Clearly, this is his first time with something like this. Although, to be fair, Hajime has never had to set _boundaries_ in the past. Most just leave when they get tired. And those that do come back never stick around long enough to have a conversation. 

He supposes Oikawa would be a little different. And if his heart had anything left to break, the revolving door of Oikawa Tooru would surely end him. 

So. Boundaries. 

He sighs, heavy and put out. Exhaustion begins to creep behind his eyelids. “Look-” 

“Why?” Oikawa asks, quiet. He opens his mouth like he wants to say more, before shaking his head, staring at Hajime expectant. 

“Why _what?”_

“Why do you do this?” 

“Can you stop speaking in fucking riddles-” 

“The sex!” He shouts, throwing his arms up, sliding his hands through his hair, pulling on the strands in the way he does when he’s frustrated, patience long since run out. 

“Are you seriously asking me why I have sex?” Hajime deadpans, crossing his arms over his chest. He doesn’t like the territory they’re entering, hostile and knowing. Alarms are blaring in his skull, _abort, abort, **abort.** _

“Now you’re just being difficult, you _know_ what I mean,” Oikawa huffs. 

“ _No,”_ Hajime says, cornered. This is worse than when Hanamaki cornered him. “I really don’t. And who are you to ask me questions? Only people that _fuck_ me get to ask me questions.” 

“ _That,”_ Oikawa says, exasperated. “That’s what I’m talking about. This hyper sexual bullshit isn’t _you.”_

Hajime smiles, and it feels cruel on his face. “Isn’t _me?_ And just what do _you_ know about me?” 

In the entire time they’ve been this somewhat friends with more benefits condition, they’ve never talked about their fallout. They exist in each other’s spaces, and say the customary things that constitute a somewhat friendship. But when the sun goes down and no words other than obligatory ‘ _yes, I want this’_ and _cmon. Hurry up. We don’t have all night’_ are said, there’s no need for _talking._

Oikawa scoffs. “Oh please. I’ve known you for most of our lives-” 

“Oh yea? What classes am I taking then? What’s my favorite ramen place around here? Do you even know what I’m majoring in?” 

Oikawa doesn’t answer. Hajime doesn’t give him the chance to. 

“You can’t even answer, can you?” He sneers, the ugly thing he’s been trying to keep down rearing to life, taking over, lashing out. He wants to _hurt,_ make Oikawa feel a _fraction_ of what he feels. “Seems to me that you don’t know _anything_ about me.” 

“That’s not fair-” 

“No,” Hajime cuts him off. “What’s not fair is you waltzing back into my life like you never left. What’s not _fair_ is that you act like nothing happened, but come back to my place, fuck me hard and good, and leave like it never happened, like it’s not _my name_ you’re screaming in my ear.” 

“Is it the thrill?” He bites out. “You like knowing I’m nothing more than your dirty secret-” 

“Stop-” 

“Spotless, perfect Tooru. Wonder what the volleyball team would say if they knew how you fuck me like a cheap whore-” 

“ _Enough!”_ Oikawa shouts, breathing hard, face flushed. 

_Good._ That ugly thing whispers. _Let him see. Let him see what you’ve become._

“You’re wrong,” he forces out, hands clenched at his sides. Because Oikawa Tooru has never been one to take anything lying down. “I _do_ know _you_. I know you take your coffee black because you thought it made you look cooler when we were fourteen. I know you still like bugs and won’t kill any that come into your space. I know you hate winter because it makes you grumpy, but you love summer and your mom used to have to bribe you inside. I know you have the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met,” his voice softens before clearing it. 

“But I don’t know who the fuck is in front of me right now. So help me understand. Please. We can talk about the other stuff later. _Please Hajime.”_

Oikawa Tooru does not beg. 

This is a fact Hajime has known since he was seven. 

There was a time when Hajime would do anything to hear a ‘ _please Hajime’_ fall from his lips. 

Now it makes him sick, an amalgamation of the past year and some change billowing in his throat. 

“You want to understand?” He breathes, chokes on his words and utters a truth that coats his tongue in ash. “Understand this then. It’s all I’m good for.” 

It hangs in the air between them. 

And now that he’s started, he can’t seem to stop. 

“You think you can rattle off those little facts about me and know me? You don’t know _shit_ if you can’t see this is all I’m worth.” 

“Who,” his voice wobbles. “Who told you that?” It’s a demand, and a plea, rolled into one. The Grand King laid before him bare, and Hajime wants to close his eyes against it. 

_You did._ He wants to say. Not in so many words. The rejection that started the domino effect of realization. 

Because every instance has a common denominator, and that common denominator is him. The only fair conclusion is _he_ is the problem. 

“No one,” he sighs, huffing a laugh that tears through his throat like glass. “Some people just aren’t meant to be loved.” 

Foolish are the ones that believe they can live in the cracked parts of themselves, ignoring the splinters until they yield to the final blow. 

“Oh Hajime,” Oikawa whispers, sounding as broken as he feels. 

None of his parts line up anymore, jagged edges scraping together, forcibly trying to fit into places they once could. 

Tears rise and fall, cascading down his cheeks before he can hardly register them. For the first time in over a year, he consciously cries, letting out every single hurt. 

“ _Fuck,”_ he sobs, pressing the heel of his hands into his eyes. “Fuck just say you don’t want me because I’m dirty you fucking coward. Just say you don’t want someone that’s used up, good for nothing but a good-”

Oikawa grabs him, pulling him in tight for a hug. Hajime allows it, one part because he doesn’t have any fight left in him, three parts because it feels so _nice_ to just be held, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get this again, so grasps onto Oikawa like a dying man and lets him sink them to the floor. 

And he cries and cries and cries. Shakes and sobs into Oikawa’s shoulder, feeling Oikawa’s own hitching breath against his cheek. 

He cries until he’s got nothing left, hollow like all the good and bad parts have been scooped out. 

“Do you really believe that about yourself?” Oikawa murmurs into his hair through his own tears. 

“What’s there to believe?” He murmurs back. There’s nothing to believe. It’s just truth. 

Oikawa pulls his face from his neck, placing both hands on his cheeks, rubbing the tears that continue their silent ascent. His eyes are wide, weepy and beautiful, holding so much conviction, his signature, _I believe with the utmost confidence everything I’m about to say_ look _._

“Iwaizumi Hajime you listen to me,” his fingers dig into his face, not hard, but firm enough to listen. “You are _so loved.”_

He doesn’t say _by who?_ Even as it beats against his teeth, because Oikawa’s eyes also hold something else he’s never seen directed at him before, and he doesn’t want to count his chickens before they hatch. _It can’t be._ He thinks. _It simply can’t._

He wants to turn away from that gaze, but Oikawa won’t let him. Wants to turn away from the adoration that shines thru honey eyes, but Oikawa won’t let him, just guides his face back into his neck when fresh tears bubble and spill over. 

“You can’t do this to me,” he whimpers, muffled by the cotton of his shirt. 

“I know,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, Hajime. I’m so sorry.” 

They stay like that on the floor, curled into each other, limbs long since gone numb, tears dry and souls hollow. 

~~~

Hajime doesn’t remember much from the point of getting from the floor into his bed, where Oikawa bullied him into changing into fresh sweats and a sweatshirt he may or may not have stolen from the man himself, bullied him into drinking some water, bullied him into somewhat of a functional human being. 

“Just- just let me do this. Okay?” He’d said, when Hajime protested some. “Call it payback for all the time you pulled my head out my ass.” A flimsy tease at best, belied by the melancholy that clings to the corner of his eyes. 

He does remember, however, Oikawa attempting to leave once he was sure Hajime was hydrated and cozy enough.

His hand moved before he really thought about it, seizing his wrist before he could leave. “Stay,” he’d said, giving a light squeeze. 

“Sure,” a ghost of a smile on his face. “I’ll be on the couch-”

“No,” he tugged on his wrist, tumbling him into the mattress. “Just stay here.” 

“Hajime I don’t think-“ 

“ _Tooru,”_ he gave him a hard look. “Our relationship is already fucked. Sleeping in my bed for the night won’t change anything.” 

Oikawa considered this for a moment. “Okay,” he whispers, easing his hand out of Hajime’s grip. “Okay. Let me get ready for bed. I’ll be in in a sec. Promise.” And he left. He heard the water run, the toilet flush, muffled voices. He assumed Oikawa called someone. Maybe a roommate, teammate, Hanamaki or Matsukawa. He didn’t care. He didn’t care for much in that moment, other than Oikawa slipping back into his bed, situating himself on the farthest edge from Hajime. 

He didn’t move when Oikawa turned around at some point, reaching out to draw shapeless patterns on his back, like he used to when they were kids, and the thunder outside was a little too loud. 

Hajime never liked the noise of the thunder. 

Tooru never liked the flash of lightning. 

Tooru got to close his eyes and keep Hajime in his grasp, while Hajime got the distraction of light touches lulling him to sleep. 

And now, as twenty year olds, Oikawa will close his eyes, dragging finger tips over the knobs of his spine, whispering, “get some rest,” while Hajime is within arms length. 

For the first time in a long long time, they are in each other’s orbit, nothing other than Hajime and Tooru. 

~~~

Hajime wakes with a sour mouth, and the smell of something cooking in the air. He’s sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes when Oikawa walks in with a tray full of light foods, rice, eggs, toast. 

“Did you burn anything?” He rasps. 

Oikawa rolls his eyes. “And here I was trying to do something nice.” He holds the tray just out of reach before placing it on the bedside table. He hands him the eggs and rice, perching himself on the edge of the bed, hands folded neatly in his lap as he purses his lips, searching for words. 

“How are you feeling?” 

He pauses through a bland bite of breakfast, takes stock, and comes up with nothing. He shrugs. 

“Not sure.” 

Oikawa nods, squeezing his clasped hands. “That’s fair.” 

Hajime narrows his eyes. “Figured you’d be gone by now. Don’t you have practice?” 

Oikawa waves a hand, stiffening at the accusation. “Don’t worry about that.” 

“ _Oikawa-”_

“I couldn’t just leave you. Not after last night,” he looks at Hajime with something of desperation in his eyes. 

Hajime scoffs. “That doesn’t mean you can throw away your career-” 

“It’s one practice-” 

“When I’m _fine-”_

 _“Fine?!”_ Oikawa laughs. There’s no humor in it. “Hajime, you are so far from fine.” 

A truth uttered aloud becomes concrete, solidifying its honesty to those around to bare witness to it.

Iwaizumi Hajime is not fine. 

He doesn’t say anything, for fear of solidifying any more truths. 

“Can we start over?” Oikawa asks. “This conversation I mean. There’s actually something I want to talk to you about.” 

Hajime gestures for him to continue. 

“I want us to go back to being best friends.” That catches him off guard a little bit. “I think- I think we have to get back to what we were, or something, before we can be anything else. You know?” 

“I miss you,” he reaches out for Hajime’s stilled hands, giving them a squeeze. “And I fucked it up. I want to fix it, if you’ll let me.” 

Hajime sits on it for a second. Like it was any decision, like it deserved any consideration. 

Hajime’s compass will always point due north to Oikawa Tooru. And Oikawa Tooru’s compass will always point due north to Hajime in return. 

“Okay,” he says, setting aside his breakfast to squeeze Oikawa’s hands back. 

They are two people connected to the end of a rubber band at its limits, one tug off losing the ability to snap back together. But fate has let go, hurtling them towards each other at light speed. 

~~~

The thing about repairing relationships, he realizes, is that it is hard work. But it isn’t impossible. A steady stream of texts and calls, complaints about teammates, movie dates and shared popcorn, and lingering gazes that stray just outside the laws of friendship. Two people fated to always run in each other’s circles, are destined to fall back into routine with ease, twin flames keeping each other alight. And before he knows it, he’s heading home for a Christmas weekend. 

~~~

Back in Sendai, Oikawa invites him out to the swing set they used to play on as kids. Hajime gets there first, swinging gingerly on the old swing that creaks too loudly for a still night every time he moves. He’s pretty sure if he pushes too hard, the rusty hinges will give way, sending him crashing to the ground. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine all the adventures they went on as kids, can imagine the looming sandcastle cities, the stupid competitions to see who could jump the highest off the swings, navigating the playground like the tiny kings they were. Sometimes he thinks he gets wisps of summer, of bug spray and sunblock and dirt and sand under his fingernails. If he keeps his eyes shut, he can stay in the past where his only worries were the amount of bugs he collected and dodging his mother’s attempts to slather him in sunscreen. 

“Hajime.” He doesn’t open his eyes when Oikawa sits down beside him on the adjacent swing. He hums in acknowledgement, basking in the last moments of golden memories before Oikawa showers him in whatever blue he’s about to say. 

“I have two things to say,” he declares, and if Hajime were to open his eyes, he’s sure Oikawa would have the same look on his face he did in high school, thanking them for the last three years, the same look he gets when he’s about to make any emotional proclamation. 

“I’m moving to Argentina. Going to play in the pro leagues there.” Hajime isn’t surprised. Oikawa had mentioned it in passing once, in the beginning of their rebuild. College wasn’t for him. He’d rather get a start on his career. 

“And I’m in love with you.” It’s definitive, not an ounce of hesitation in his tone. Hajime does blink his eyes open, staring at a sky only half full of stars. If he looks hard enough, he might be able to find one of the Dippers, although he’s not entirely sure. Every time Oikawa talked about it, Hajime was too busy looking at him, and not the stars. 

Some months ago, Hajime believes he pummeled to rock bottom, somewhere between Sato Riichi and Oikawa Tooru. Somewhere between Sato Riichi and Oikawa Tooru, he studied starless ceilings and choked on nonexistent ash and lost himself. 

But somewhere, between Oikawa Tooru and a new confession, he’s managed to gather most of his broken parts and piece himself together in a patchwork quilt. It’s not perfect, but he’s breathing easier, and there are now stars in the sky and no smoke in his lungs. 

“I’m moving to California. Got accepted into their AT program,” he offers. 

And then, because a truth uttered aloud is a truth solidified. 

“And I’m still in love with you.” 

He doesn’t need to turn his head to see Oikawa’s smile, but the limited stars do seem to shine a little brighter. Or maybe it’s the tears in his eyes that blur them together. 

Oikawa reaches out, linking their pinkies together. 

“We’ve gone about this all wrong,” he says, tugging Hajime closer. His swing lets out a horrible squeal in protest. 

“Who’s fault is that?” He snorts. “Just because you love me doesn’t mean you have to wait, you know.” 

Oikawa looks at him, head tilted. 

“You’ll be in Argentina,” Hajime explains. Letting go ought to hurt more, he thinks. But this kind of letting go feels more like a promise. A promise caught by the wind with the expectation that it’ll come back, that it’ll find its way home. 

Oikawa tugs his hand up to press a kiss to the back of it. 

“Nah,” he says. “I don’t think I want that.” 

“I’m just saying. I won’t be offended.” 

“Well then I won’t be offended when you’re in California.” Finally, he turns his head towards the boy he’s loved for so long, to the boy that loves him back. He doesn’t know why he’s spent so long bothering with skies and ceilings when the galaxy in Oikawa’s eyes. 

He tugs on Hajime’s chain, angling them in a way that should be impossible for such an old swing set, pressing a kiss to Hajime’s forehead, clumsy and fleeting, spreading fire across his hairline anyway. “We’ll call it a pause,” he smiles. “If you still love me when I beat everyone, we’ll talk more.” He releases his swing, letting them sway back to their original positions. 

“That long?” He’s not opposed, far from it actually. 

Neither of them are in any position to make grandiose promises that most likely end in heartbreak. Hajime is still a touch too raw for something intimate, and Oikawa has just come around to the idea of love. 

Oikawa hums. “We’ve got new lives to live.”

“I’d like you to be a part of that life,” Hajime admits. 

“Iwa-chan!” He gasps. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me!” He’s laughing, reaching for Hajime’s hand again. 

“You just told me you love me,” he deadpans, supernovas in his chest. This marks the first time Oikawa has called him _Iwa-chan_ in over a year. 

Oikawa barks another laugh, ugly and true and he loves him. “Well that’s true. Of course I’ll be a part of your life. I’m not going anywhere.” 

_I’m not going anywhere._

And doesn’t that have a brilliant ring to it. 

~~~

California teaches him how to like himself again. California teaches him how to laugh from his stomach til he’s near tears. California teaches him to throw away his metaphorical cigarettes for good. 

California leaves love to Oikawa Tooru. 

~~~

Watching Tooru be crowned in gold, a victor amongst men, does many things to his poor heart. Gold and blue, two colors that should belong to Tooru. And maybe Hajime should feel a little worse for his own team, displaying silver from a hard fought match, but he can’t fight the smile when Tooru’s eyes instantly find his own. 

He wants nothing more than to storm the podium and sweep Tooru into his arms and press every single emotion he feels into him, his pride, his astonishment, his love, _everything._

He’ll have to wait his turn, but later, much later, when Tooru drags Hajime to his room, the first thing he does is crush Hajime into the tightest hug he can, shaking happy sobs into his shoulder while Hajime gently shushes him, petting his hair as he soothes him. 

“Sorry,” he chokes out. “I’m a little overwhelmed.” 

Hajime shakes his head, smiling. “It’s okay. I just- _God_ Tooru you did it.” He pulls him in again for a hug. “I’m so proud of you. So fucking proud.” 

Tooru pulls back to cup his face, a favorite action of his. “I love you.” 

They’ve said it many times over the years, but it never fails to lose its weight, never fails to light Hajime up from the inside. 

“I love you too,” he whispers back, pulling Tooru’s hands from his face, tugging him towards the bed. “Now c’mon. To the victor and all that.” 

Tooru stops him, drawing him back in for another hug. “I think I just want to hold you tonight, if that’s okay.” 

Hajime raises an eyebrow. “Seriously? You just won gold at the Olympics, and you want to cuddle the entire night?” 

Tooru nods, entirely serious. 

“Alright,” he shrugs. “But I’m here and offering- uh- oh.” His words catch up to him, reminding them both of a painful past. Tooru kisses him on the forehead, a silent reprimand. 

“Sorry. That kind of killed the mood didn’t it?” He says, sheepish. 

“There wasn’t a _mood_ to begin with,” Tooru snorts, wrapping his arms once again around Hajime, swaying to unheard music. 

“Remember what I said, at the swings?” He says suddenly, continuing when Hajime nods. “Can I kiss you?” 

“That’s not talking,” Hajime can’t help but tease, but leans closer into Tooru’s space anyway. 

“ _Hajime,”_ he whines against his lips. 

“Yes,” he laughs, their kiss interrupted because Hajime can’t stop smiling and laughing. Tooru isn’t overly put out by it, laughing and smiling with him. 

But they kiss and kiss and kiss and it’s the second best thing to happen to him, just below watching the love of his life win everything he set out for. 

True to his word, they hold each other the entire night, sharing sparing kisses, sweet and slow as the drip of honey. 

They’ve lived their new lives, apart with sprinkled moments of togetherness. Now there’s a new, _new_ life, one together sprinkled with moments apart. 

~~~ 

Hajime stares at the ceiling, hands folded behind his head, studying the stars tacked to the ceiling, the plastic glow-in-the-dark ones that never actually glow that bright, illuminating the ceiling with a sickly green. He spent the better part of the afternoon rearranging them into constellations that look nothing like the real constellations, while Tooru ordered him around with a constellation map in his hands, holding it up to the ceiling and chiding him when he got it wrong. His mother had sent them, and they were under obligation to put them up. Not that he minds. Starless ceilings are terrible to look at. 

Under a star filled ceiling, next to his husband, snoring his ear off, Hajime breathes in, breathes out and lets the whir of the fan lull him to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are as always, very much appreciated :)


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